Harry Potter and the Plot Device of Bombadil
by Kamejen
Summary: When a stranger appears at Hogwarts to ask Harry, Ron, and Hermione to help him save the world, how can they refuse? Unfortunately, their adversary happens to reside in Middle Earth, a place that exists only in fiction... or does it?


_Author's Note:_

_This story is a crossover between HP and LotR. It's a bit of a parody as well, and it is intended to not be taken seriously from either fandom perspective. It was written purely out of respect and good humor toward each fandom, and I hope it is regarded as such when it is read. ;) Also, it was written as a contest challenge, so it's rather contrived, in my honest opinion. Oh well. Happy reading!_**  
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**Harry Potter and the Plot Device of Bombadil**

It was a normal day at Hogwarts. Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger were relaxing in the courtyard and discussing their current classes. Ron and Harry were griping about Potions, and Hermione was trying to convince them to take Numerology with her, when a strange man walked up to them, accompanied by Hagrid.

"Hiya, Harry! Ron! Hermione!" Hagrid greeted them enthusiastically. "I want you to meet a friend o' mine. This is Corundus Fletcher. He's an author! He was wondering if he might have a word wi' you three." And without another word, the large, hairy man lumbered away, whistling happily. Had their attention not been drawn elsewhere, they might have thought Hagrid's abrupt behavior odd – even for him. However, their collective interest was now focused on the visitor whom Hagrid had brought with him, not on Hagrid himself.

Corundus Fletcher was a petite man with soft, wavy gray hair and brown eyes that appeared more lively and animated than the rest of him. They darted across Harry and company, raking in the details they found there. Fletcher himself was clothed in a shabby brown business suit, and he was carrying a worn leather briefcase. He offered the three a gracious bow, and he gave them all a tight-lipped but gentle smile.

"Good afternoon," he began, his voice soft, smooth, and reassuring. "It's a pleasure to meet you all. Harry Potter," he began, glancing almost imperceptibly at Harry's scar and flashing him a knowing smile as he shook his hand. "Hermione Granger," he continued, nodding and smiling warmly at her, "and of course, Ron Weasley," he concluded, resting his gaze upon the red-haired, freckled boy with Harry and Hermione. "I know your father," he said cordially. "Arthur and I were acquaintances when we went to Hogwarts. I'm pleased to see that he's done well for himself in the Ministry."

"Er... thank you, Mr. Fletcher," Ron replied, shaking his hand and glancing at Harry and Hermione to return their curious looks. "My dad doesn't talk much about his old acquaintances. I don't remember him mentioning you."

"Oh, he mightn't remember me," Fletcher replied, his laugh a clear, pleasant chuckle. "I was fairly inconspicuous in my boyhood. Always a timid one, if you understand my meaning. At any rate, I didn't come to disturb you about my past. Rather, I've come to ask a favor of you all – a favor that could help protect my future, and yours too, I'd wager."

The three were all ears now. This was more like it! They wondered what this man could possibly be alluding to, and how they were to be involved.

"You see, it all began when I was a reporter working for the Daily Prophet," the man began, opening his leather case, which expanded and allowed him to withdraw from it a large, plush armchair, complete with hassock. He set the furniture on the grass in front of their bench, leaned the case against it, sat down, and continued with his story. "While I was visiting a friend of mine, I found out about the passing of a great author. It was reported in muggle papers that some of his belongings were to be put up for auction, and I was curious, so I went to see what would be offered. I discovered through his maids and other staff that he had left behind a very curious device. No member of his staff knew exactly what it was, but they had seen their master consulting it on many occasions, as though it were some sort of portent or divination tool. Whenever any of them came near it, however, it would utter the most frightful shrieking and wailing sounds, and they began to fear it and dread cleaning the room in which it was kept. Due to its magical nature, they couldn't very well sell it to muggles, but they were afraid they'd be unable to locate any wizarding folk willing to take it off their hands either. I told them that I had a fascination for curious devices, and they asked me if I might be interested in taking it. They were extremely eager to see it go. Not even the author's niece – his sole surviving relative, and the heiress to his fortune and all the objects in his house – wanted anything to do with it. When I stepped into the room where they kept it, I immediately heard the shrieking sounds it emitted, but to me, they didn't sound at all unpleasant. On the contrary, I realized at once what it was. It was a plot device."

"A plot device?" Hermione interjected. "But surely you're joking! Those are the stuff of fairy tales and legends!"

"As was the philosopher's stone," the stranger reminded her quietly, a flicker of annoyance flashing briefly in his eyes. "Not all things of legend are based on non-fact, young lady. You three, of all people, ought to know that."

"Sorry," she apologized, her face flushing from embarrassment at his gentle admonishment. "Please continue."

"Wait a minute," Harry interrupted them. "What's a plot device?"

"A plot device is a magical artifact that grants its master a drastic turn of events," Hermione chirruped, as though she were reading straight from a lexical text. She often recited things in this way for Harry and Ron. "Although it is most often used by authors to help create vibrant and memorable stories, it can also be used to change the events of real life, and to alter destiny. There has never been found any conclusive evidence that they exist, but several great authors before our time have been rumored to master such devices. These objects are very well known in the literary world, and even muggles have an inkling of their power, as they have a similarly named convention for writing their own books."

"Right you are," Fletcher commended her, receiving a glowing beam of satisfaction in return. "Well, to make a long story short, I was allowed to take the plot device with me, and I studied it for many weeks. I wanted at first to use it to advance my career as an author. However, I soon discovered that what I had in my possession was not actually a plot device. Instead, it was a clever reproduction of one, and it had no plot altering capability at all. It did, however, hold a great secret. It was a portkey to a place where the real plot device actually _did_ exist."

"Hang on," Harry interjected this time, frowning in puzzlement. "If it was a portkey, why didn't it just transport you away the moment you touched it? For that matter, why didn't it transport away any of the people in the author's house?"

"Ah, but this portkey is special," Fletcher explained, smiling approvingly at Harry. "It has a very precise time delay set upon it, and for most of the time, the transport mechanism lies dormant. If you aren't aware of this fact, you might just consider it a magical curiosity. I discovered its true nature one night while I was still struggling to decipher how to use what I thought was a plot device. It transported me to a strange place indeed – a place called Middle Earth."

"That sounds so familiar," Ron muttered, furrowing his brow. "I could swear I've heard that name before."

"I should expect as much," Fletcher replied. "It's the setting of one of the greatest fantasy stories ever told – a story that has never been seen as anything but just that, until I was able to see it for myself, that is. What I found on the other end of the portkey was the very realm about which a certain author wrote some of the most successful, intricate tales ever celebrated by muggles, witches, and wizards alike."

"I know who you're talking about now!" Ron cried triumphantly. "J.R.R. Tolkien! He wrote the Lord of the Rings! Is that the chap you got this portkey from?"

"The very same," Fletcher replied. "Although, you'll never hear me say his name aloud."

"Why?" Harry asked him.

"I'm afraid that anyone who has ever worked for the Daily Prophet is prohibited from saying his name, under stiff financial penalty. Unfortunately, in the Prophet's earlier days, it wasn't at all scrupulous about copyright laws, and for several weeks, the paper printed excerpts from his stories without permission. His solicitors were very powerful indeed, and the lawsuit they filed against the Prophet stuck fast. Not only was the paper itself banned from printing anything even remotely relating to him or his works, but anyone affiliated with it at the time or at any time in the future up until his death was forbidden to speak his name to anyone. If ever we did, a sum of ten galleons would be immediately transferred from the Prophet's holdings into his own Gringott's account upon each instance. In other words, those of us who worked for the Prophet while he was alive are all contractually bound to never mention his name aloud."

"That's bloody brilliant!" Ron gasped. "I mean, it's unfortunate for you, of course, but what an amazing bit of court work!"

"Yes, indeed it was," Fletcher replied, smiling slightly. "But perhaps I've digressed a bit from my story. To continue, it wasn't long before his niece decided she wanted the portkey back. She had discovered from some of her father's literary friends that they believed the object to be the fabled plot device, and she was very angry indeed that she had given it away to a lowly reporter like me. She desperately wanted it back. She wanted very much to become an author herself, and she knew she'd become a winning one with a plot device at her disposal. However, when she had finally tracked down my address, I was no longer anywhere to be found; I had been transported to Middle Earth. My assets were seized, and I was declared missing and presumed dead. It's little wonder, considering I spent the next twenty years of my life in Middle Earth."

"Blimey!" Ron gasped. Hermione and Harry both stared at Fletcher with equal astonishment.

"Why on earth would you do that?" Harry asked him. "What kind of place is Middle Earth?"

"It is a wonderful place, where magic is treasured by all – muggles and wizards alike. There are magical creatures roaming freely, unspoiled countryside for nearly the entire world, and one of very few downsides is that there is a great lack of modern inventions and conveniences. However, there is also a great evil in that place, and it's that evil that I must warn you all about. There is a man from that realm, and although he is known by many names, the one I heard most often is Tom Bombadil. That man is the current owner of the plot device, and he is using it to create real life stories with dire consequences. What's worse, he's learned of the existence of the portkey, and he's intent on invading our world and creating havoc here. My last encounter with him left me practically incapable of any magical inclination. I can't perform even the slightest of charms," he added sadly, withdrawing his wand from his coat pocket and sighing as he swished it through the air. It didn't show any response at all. "I'm fairly well a squib now. I can no longer carry on the fight against him."

"But why did you come to us?" Hermione urged him, the concern plain in her voice. "Why didn't you take this to the ministry? Surely the aurors could handle this threat, couldn't they?"

"The ministry believes me to be dead, and unless I can use my magic to prove to them that I'm really Corundus Fletcher, I'm just someone pretending to be him. I can no longer do magic, so I'm stuck. Besides, if this day and age has taught us anything, it's that heroes can best be found in underage wizards and witches."

"Works for me," Ron replied, nodding.

"Yeah, me too," Harry agreed.

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever-," Hermione began, but Ron immediately cut her off with an eager question.

"So what do we do to find this Tom Bombadil?" he asked Corundus.

"Yeah, and how do we defeat him?" Harry added. He and Ron seemed totally unfazed by this turn of events. It was as though mysterious adventures with unknown dangers were the very thing they lived for. Although she had made several protests already, they were mostly out of habit; even Hermione had to admit through her skepticism that she was curious herself.

"I have the portkey in my bag," Fletcher replied, looking very relieved indeed. "At precisely 2:03 tomorrow morning, it will activate, and it will transport whomever is holding it to Middle Earth. It activates at the same time every morning, so in order to return, you need only be holding it at the right time. Middle Earth is exactly like our own earth, in that the time period is the same. I can't say that you'll be in the same time zone when you arrive, but you will be in a very earth-like world."

"That's all well and good," Hermione sighed, "but what about this person we're supposed to defeat? Who is he? Why is he doing this? And what can we do to stop him?"

"He is the most powerful being in all of Middle Earth," Fletcher replied, a hint of annoyance present in his gentle voice. Apparently he didn't enjoy getting the third degree from Miss Granger. "He is not a wizard, but he has very distinct powers of influence over every living thing. If he wills it, you will not want to attack him. If he wills it, you will attack each other. It is very difficult to fight him, and you won't be able to do so if you don't figure out a way to get around his charms. I'm afraid I don't have any more to offer you in the way of help. All I can say is good luck, and I pray for your successful return. The fate of both our worlds depends upon it. In his hands, the plot device is a deadly weapon poised to strike at all existence. It must not remain in Middle Earth. It must be given to me, as I am the only one in this world who knows how to use it, and how to keep it from doing harm."

Remarkably, the kids didn't once think about how suspicious this statement was. On the contrary, it seemed a quite natural and logical thing for them to hear. They agreed at once that they would help him out, and that they would set out that very night. He gave them a package wrapped tightly in cloth, and they could hear muffled cries and moans coming from within it. They knew at once what was inside it.

"Unwrap it tonight just before it activates," he warned them. "If you don't, it won't transport you anywhere. And when you get back," he continued, rifling through his bag before withdrawing a cage containing a tawny owl equally as shabby as himself, "write me a letter and send it with this owl. He'll know where to reach me. I'll come meet you at this spot when I receive word that you have the device."

"Come on, guys!" Harry said excitedly. "Let's go pack our stuff! Thanks, Mr. Fletcher! And don't worry; we'll sort this all out somehow." They all hurried off to the dormitory, anxious to pack what they'd need for a trip to another world, and excitedly whispering to each other about how they might attempt to fight with such a mysterious character as Tom Bombadil. Not a one bothered to consider how this would affect his or her school lives –not even Hermione, which was indeed uncharacteristic.

Corundus Fletcher carefully packed his belongings back inside his expandable leather case, and he smiled secretively. As he had suspected, the children had been all too easy to manipulate – even easier than that buffoon Hogwarts used as a gamekeeper. A squib indeed! His subtle hexes had rendered them utterly convinced from the very moment he had withdrawn his wand. Now all that remained was to wait for them to deliver his prize, and then he would be able to publish the greatest novel ever known! Not even Tolkien himself would be able to hold a candle to the great Corundus Fletcher after he was through!

--------------------------

"Is it time?" Ron asked for the umpteenth time, impatiently fidgeting as Hermione was still worrying over which books to carry with her. "What's your watch say, Harry? Mine's right at two o'clock!"

"Almost time," Harry agreed, nodding and clutching the package excitedly. They had snuck into the girls' bathroom, much to the delight of Moaning Myrtle, who was eagerly flitting from one conspirator to the other, hesitating by Harry the longest each time. Although they had paid her a polite greeting when they entered, they were now too engrossed in their own affairs to notice her much, despite her impatient moans and screeches. They had figured that with the whiny ghost's reputation, passersby would dismiss the noise that the package made as Myrtle's nightly lamentations.

Each one had brought what he (or she) had thought would be needed for a trip into another world – food, matches, water, several changes of clothing (both cold and warm), a few basic toiletries, and several other helpful items, such as Harry's invisibility cloak, their brooms, and some useful last-minute potions Hermione had brewed for them as she could in so little time. Hermione had also insisted on bringing several thick volumes, "in case they needed to consult a reference."

Ron brought what might have been the most useful things of all – a copy of the Lord of the Rings, and an unabridged audio rendition of the same. He had borrowed them from the library that afternoon, much to the delight of the librarian, Madam Pince, who was a fan of Tolkien herself. He'd had to endure a five minute dissertation of why Tolkien hung the stars and the moon, and only when he told her he was reading it to find some cool names for a new pet did she shut up about it. Apparently even the terse, shriveled Madam Pince had a soft spot, if only for literary greats.

The company had then spent the better part of the evening listening to the first half of the audio reading of the books, and they had all enjoyed them immensely. When they'd heard the part about Tom Bombadil, they were all very confused indeed.

"It's almost as though Tolkien was talking about a different person," Harry had commented after the "merry fellow" had seen the hobbits off on their way. "It doesn't sound at all as though this Tom would care about the kinds of things Fletcher was telling us about."

"Maybe the real Tom brainwashed Tolkien into believing in a false image of him," Hermione had offered, looking up from the notes she'd been taking. "If what Fletcher told us is true, it's definitely a possibility."

"I still don't see how we're going to fight this blighter," Ron had said with a scowl. "If we can't trust even our own thoughts on this, how are we going to know what we're supposed to do?"

"There's always Harry's occlumency," Hermione had returned brightly. "Perhaps what he learned under professor Snape's teaching could help him keep his own mind. As for you and I, I suppose we'll have to stay a safe distance from Harry – maybe even concealed under his invisibility cloak – to support him. Otherwise Bombadil might turn us against him."

They hadn't even finished with the first book when it was already ten that night. They had determined to go to bed early, so that they'd at least get some sleep before their alarms woke them up at one-thirty. By the time they had convened in the Girls' bathroom, their enthusiasm hadn't quelled much, but their lack of sleep had made them rather grouchy.

Finally, after Hermione had managed to decide between two impressively massive charm textbooks, Harry unwrapped the package that Fletcher had given them, and they all winced as it shrieked and moaned so loudly that even Myrtle dove into one of the toilets in fright. The object itself wasn't much to look at; a plain tin box with a single stem protruding from its top, upon which there rested a metallic grey ball. Attached to the ball was a small cone – the narrow part of which was attached to the ball – and the noise seemed to be coming from the cone, as if it were the mouth of some kind of creature. It was hard to be sure, however, because the stem, ball, and cone were thrashing about as though they were in great pain, and the wailing was blasted in all directions as a result. However, they didn't have long to dwell on their discomfort, because shortly after each one grasped the box, the portkey activated, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione experienced the familiarly peculiar feeling of being yanked up and away by their navels. When they next opened their eyes, they were in what they presumed to be Middle Earth.

They were inside a dusty market square at the center of what appeared to be a moderately sized town. There were shabby huts and hovels everywhere, and no pavement on the streets. Horses and carts were ambling around the courtyard, and people were shopping in the various markets along its edge. It looked a lot like a scene from a movie set in the middle ages.

Immediately upon their arrival, the portkey began to wail again, so harry quickly muffled it with the burlap cloth in which it had come to them, and he stowed it safely away in his backpack. The three got to their feet and dusted themselves off, glancing around interestedly.

"I don't think they're accustomed to seeing British witches and wizards," Hermione whispered anxiously as people shrieked and scattered when they realized that three strangers had just appeared out of nowhere in front of them. "I don't think we made a very good first impression."

"It can't be helped," Harry replied with a shrug. "Maybe we should see if we can find someone who's not afraid of us, though. It would be good if we could ask someone how to find you know who." He flashed her and Ron a grin when they gave a start, because he knew which person had entered their minds when he referred to, "you know who." "You know who I mean," he laughed.

"Come on," Ron chuckled, elbowing Harry in the ribs. "Let's ask that big chap over there if he's heard of him. He looks like not much would scare him." He pointed to a blacksmith who was eying them distrustfully, and he was holding a slender chunk of iron with a red-hot point at the end. Hermione gulped.

"Are you sure he would help us?" She said timidly, dismayed that both Harry and Ron were now boldly walking up to the dangerous-looking man. "I don't think this is very wise, you two."

"What's he going to do to us? Poke us?" Ron laughed. "We're wizards, Hermione! He's just a blacksmith!"

"You don't know that," she whispered, jabbing him in the back. But it was too late. They were already there.

"Excuse us," Harry said affably, causing the man to scowl mightily at him. "My friends and I have traveled to your city from a very long distance. We're looking for someone, and we were wondering if you'd be able to help us find him."

"I don't sell information," the man growled, turning away from them and grabbing a large hammer, making even Ron take a step back. "I keep my nose outta th' affairs o' folks. If you want information, you'll be wantin' to talk to Butterbur at th' Prancin' Pony." He jerked his thumb towards a large building across the street with a stable on one side. There was a cheery sign with the words, "The Prancing Pony," above the door. "Old Butterbur has his nose in everyone's business. He'd be the one to ask."

"Thank you," Harry said, nodding respectfully. The man grunted in reply and laid his hot piece of iron on an anvil before pounding it with his hammer. Harry and the others took that as their cue to leave.

"He was surprisingly helpful," Hermione remarked, sounding very relieved indeed. "I wonder what we can expect from this Butterbur?"

"I didn't say it before, but we ought to have our wands at the ready," Harry said in a low voice. "We don't know what to expect from anyone around here, and Fletcher himself mentioned that there were wizards and muggles both in this world. We don't want to run foul of a mean-tempered wizard and not be ready."

"Thanks for the ray of sunshine, mate," Ron chuckled nervously. They withdrew their wands from their cloaks, and they entered through the door of the Prancing Pony.

Once inside, they were immediately overwhelmed by an atmosphere of jocularity and mirth. There were mens' voices beyond the entryway, and they sounded as though they were inebriated and in a very good humor. Harry, Ron, and Hermione walked through the entryway to a counter where there was a large man fiddling with some beer mugs on a shelf. Harry cleared his throat, and the man turned around.

"What have we here?" he said in pleasant surprise. "We don't get too many children in here. Didn't your parents tell you this is a place for adults? Now shoo!"

"Sorry, but we're not here to drink," Harry explained, shaking his head. "We've traveled a long way to find a certain man, and we were told that we could find someone in the Prancing Pony called Butterbur who might be able to help us."

"Did you now? Well, my name is Butterbur, to be certain, but I haven't the foggiest what you could ask o' me. Who are you, young master, and what is it you'd like to know?"

Harry glanced at Hermione and Ron, who both nodded and gestured for him to go ahead. He turned back to Butterbur and continued. "My friends and I are two wizards and a witch from a very distant land," he began, trying to be as clear as possible without getting too detailed. "We have been sent on an errand, and we need to find a man named Tom Bombadil. What we were hoping to get from you is where we could find this Bombadil fellow. We don't know our way around very well, and some directions would be helpful."

"Two wizards and a witch?" Butterbur repeated incredulously, gaping at Harry and his companions with great interest. "Surely you're joking, young master! Wizards are great, powerful folk that rarely ever come through these parts. In fact, it's a very odd coincidence, but you three are my second encounter with wizards today, if what you say is true. Gandalf himself came here today," he said, beaming proudly.

"Gandalf did?" Ron asked eagerly, immediately interested. "What was he like?" One could easily see that Ron was interested in meeting the man they had heard so much about in the story.

"Mysterious and meddlesome," Butterbur laughed good-naturedly. "Just the way I like my wizards, if you don't mind me sayin' so. It's always easy to tell a wizard from a regular man, or at least it used to be until I met you three. I'm not quite sure I believe you, to be honest."

"We're not from around here," Hermione offered, shaking her head at him. "Harry really is a wizard, and so is Ron. I'm a witch. See? Accio beer mug!" she exclaimed, swishing her wand and catching the mug as it shot to her from its resting place on Butterbur's shelf. Butterbur jumped and let out a startled squeak.

"Bless me! You really are magic folk, aren't you?" he gasped. "Begging your pardon indeed! I've never seen any so young!"

"It's all right," Harry replied, taking the mug as Hermione gave it to him, and then handed it to Butterbur. "We don't mind. We just want to know where to find Tom Bombadil. Have you heard of him?"

"Well, not that I can say," he replied, taking the mug and staring at it curiously, as if he expected it to jump out of his hands and dance on the table. "That is, I may have heard the name somewhere, but I don't know the man. Let me think." He replaced the mug on the shelf and scratched his chin. "Come to think of it, Gandalf may have mentioned him once or twice. I think the man does live around here somewhere. In fact, I'm sure of it. Only, I can't say as I know where. You ought to try to find Gandalf. He could tell you."

"Do you know where we can find him?" Harry pressed him, his countenance falling at the way they were being passed along from one informant to another.

"As a matter of fact, I do," Butterbur laughed. "And I dare say he'll be interested to meet you. He's gone to Hobbiton. He says he has business there with a hobbit. What business wizards have with hobbits, I haven't a clue," he laughed good naturedly. "Do you know how to get to Hobbiton?"

"As we've said, we're not from around here," Harry replied. "Could you point us in the right direction? It would be a big help."

"Certainly!" Butterbur cried, unfastening the latch on the door beside the counter and emerging in front of them. Follow me, young masters!"

He led them outside onto the main street, and he explained to them that they were in a city called Bree, and that if they wanted to head for Hobbiton, they'd have to follow the main road out of town toward the west, cross the river Brandywine, and head for Westfarthing, which was part of the Shire. He provided them with a list of landmarks to watch out for, and when they were satisfied that they ought to be able to find their way, they thanked him and unfastened their brooms from their packs.

"What curious-looking brooms!" he exclaimed, laughing and putting his hands on his hips. "Tell me, young masters, do you intend to sweep the ground as you walk?"

"Who said anything about walking?" Harry laughed, as he and the others mounted their brooms. "Thanks for your help, Mr. Butterbur! I hope everyone else we meet in Middle Earth is as friendly as you are!"

They kicked off the ground and sailed up into the air. They only hesitated just long enough to enjoy the cry of surprise from Butterbur before heading in the direction he'd pointed, laughing at one another for a joke well played.

The trio flew for several miles, keeping a mindful watch on the landmarks below, and following the notes that Hermione had meticulously written during Butterbur's roundabout descriptions. Before long, they passed high over what they decided was the Brandywine bridge, and not long after that, they passed over the town of Bywater, which was across a small tributary of the Brandywine away from Hobbiton, just as Butterbur had said. They decided it would be best to land outside of town and walk the rest of the way, as they didn't want to frighten anyone. Judging from Butterbur's reaction to their brooms, it didn't seem likely that wizards traveled by this method in Middle Earth.

"So what's the plan?" Ron asked, eager to meet Gandalf the Grey. "The hobbits aren't going to be accustomed to seeing humans in their village, least of all people our age. I don't think we'll be able to get them to talk to us."

"We ought to try to find one of the hobbits that Tolkien wrote about," Harry thought aloud. "Maybe we could find Frodo or Bilbo here. At the very least we could ask where Bag End is. If the fantasy is like the reality, I think it's likely we'll find Gandalf there."

"I dunno about Frodo or Bilbo," Ron said doubtfully. "I don't want to spoil the story for you, mate, but both of them leave Middle Earth at the end of the story. Gandalf too. I can't figure out why he's still here, but he's probably Gandalf the White now, and he's got to be really old."

"What about Sam?" Harry asked. "Would he be here?"

"Dunno," Ron replied. "It's worth a try. Anyway, I say we try to find Bilbo's house – Bag End, I think it was. Whoever's there ought to know something."

"Ron's right," Hermione agreed. "And as we look, let's just do our best to seem as harmless as we can."

They set out through the hayfield in which they'd landed, and headed for the heart of town. It wasn't long at all before they were met with many hastily closed doors and locked latches. Ron sighed.

"I was afraid of this," he grumbled. "I guess they really are as shy as they are in the book. You think we ought to knock on one of the doors?"

"I doubt you'd get a reply," Hermione giggled, watching an old hobbit scramble into his hole and slam the door shut farther up the street. "They seem scared to death."

"Look, let's just try to figure it out ourselves then," Harry said in an irritated voice. "I'd rather not be where I'm not wanted, and I don't fancy staying here any longer than I need to."

Ron and Hermione reluctantly agreed, and they began studying the mailboxes of the inhabited hillocks they passed as they walked throughout town. When they passed a particularly nice dwelling with a large (relatively speaking) oaken door and a mailbox that said "Baggins" on it, they felt certain they had found the right place. Nervously, they walked up to the door and Harry gave it a hesitant couple of taps.

"Coming!" cried a pleasantly normal voice from within. "Be just a moment!" The sounds of footsteps grew louder, and the door swung inward.

"Why... Gandalf, there are three children of men at my door!" A short, dark haired hobbit cried when he saw them. "Bless my soul!" He beamed at them, and with a courteous bow, he bade them come inside. Harry, Ron, and even Hermione had to stoop to enter, but when they were inside they were too enthralled by the interesting sights to mind the low ceilings. It was just as the book had described it – cozy little furniture, a hallway leading to different rooms (there was even a place to hang cloaks just as there had been in the book). It was warm, inviting, and the smell of freshly buttered toast and jam was wafting through the hallway, beckoning them into the dining room. "Feel free to leave whatever you'd like to slough off here in the hallway. It will be quite safe," he added, smiling at them and bowing again. "Welcome to Bag End! My name is Bilbo Baggins, at your service! If you've the time, I'd like to invite you all to have tea with me! I already have company, but I'm sure he won't mind it a bit, will you Gandalf?"

"Not at all, old friend," came a distinctly aged yet decidedly alert voice in an adjoining room. "I would love to know what such visitors are doing in Hobbiton." Bilbo led them into the room from whence Gandalf's voice had come, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione – with no small degree of astonishment – followed him inside.

"This is really too kind of you, Mr. Baggins," Hermione said, feeling that they ought to at least thank the hobbit for allowing them into his home without so much as asking who they were. "We mean no intrusion on you, honestly! We only wished to ask you where we might find the wizard Gandalf. We were told you would know."

"What an amazing stroke of luck," Bilbo cried, motioning for them to sit at a small table, across from none other than Gandalf himself. "He is here with me, and you may speak with him as you like. If you will excuse me, I'm must go fetch some more tea." He ducked out of the room and scurried off toward the kitchen.

"Hobbits really are an obliging sort," Harry mused aloud, forgetting his manners for a moment. "Tolkien wasn't joking."

Hermione kicked him in the leg, and he remembered himself. "Sorry," he said quickly, rising to introduce himself. "My name is Harry Potter, and this is Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. We have been sent to Middle Earth to find a man named Tom Bombadil. We were told you might know where we can find him, so that's why we've come."

The man across from them looked a bit taken aback by Harry's forthright comments. He was wizened and thin, and with his long white hair and beard, he reminded them all very much of a certain Hogwarts headmaster. If he'd been wearing half-moon spectacles, he would have made a fantastic look-alike. "You are direct, aren't you, Mr. Potter?" Gandalf chuckled. "As an Entish friend of mine would say, let's not be so hasty. Why don't you start from the beginning, perhaps by telling me exactly how it is that you were 'sent to Middle Earth'?"

Harry glanced at Ron and Hermione, but this time they shared his concern. They weren't sure how much detail they should share with the old wizard. There was no telling how alike he was to his counterpart in Tolkien's stories, and besides, he might not believe them if they gave him the whole truth.

"It's very complicated," Hermione stammered, after neither Harry nor Ron made any decision to respond. "You see, Harry and Ron are wizards, and I am a witch. We're not from Middle Earth. The place we come from is simply called Earth, and there are certainly no hobbits there."

"No dwarves either," Ron continued. "Or orcs, for that matter. It's a lot like this world, but there are definitely differences."

"And we were sent here by another wizard," Harry continued, deciding to take a risk, "because he has claimed that Tom Bombadil has a device that could do great damage to our world and this one, and that we need to retrieve it from him and take it back with us."

"Young wizards?" Bilbo cried, entering with a fresh pot of tea, some cups, and a heaping pile of freshly cut bread. "Gandalf, I had no idea this is what you look like when you're young!"

"To be sure, Bilbo, I never looked like that," Gandalf laughed. "It is, however, very curious indeed. I don't suppose you three have any means of proving to me that what you're saying is the truth?"

Harry and Ron looked at Hermione expectantly. She rolled her eyes and stood up. "I can at least prove to you that we are what we say we are," she explained, swishing her wand. "Incendio!" she cried, pointing her wand at the logs in the fireplace. As it was a warm, summer day, the logs had not been lit. As soon as Hermione's spell hit them, they were instantly ablaze with lively flames. She sat down and stared matter-of-factly at Gandalf and Bilbo, who were both very much taken aback by her display.

"My word! Gandalf! She holds a mastery over fire, just as you do!" Bilbo gasped.

"Now do you believe us?" Harry asked him. "All we want to know is where Tom Bombadil is. Can you help us?"

Gandalf stared at them for a couple of moments, and then he laughed. "You know, I have seen two others of your kind before," he chuckled, grinning knowingly at them and nodding. "I believe you when you say you are two wizards and a witch. However, I think you should know that even if I tell you where to find Bombadil, you won't find him unless he wants to be found. He is older than the land itself, they say, and his very voice has a great power over all living things. He can make plants sing and beasts dance. He can make men forget their troubles and be happy, and he can even talk a hare into challenging a wolf, although he's not the type who would. If you mean him harm, you'll never find him. If you need his help, he may just come to you."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged looks. "Hang on," Harry said, eying Gandalf suspiciously. "We were told that Tom Bombadil was a manipulative tyrant bent on invading our world. What you're saying doesn't exactly fit that description. How do we know who to believe?"

"Let me ask you something," Gandalf replied, his eyes twinkling at them. "Did a man by the name of Fletcher send you here?" The immediate responses of widened eyes and disbelief gave him his answer. "Corundus Fletcher has spent many years in our land, and during that time he has tried every method he could to learn the whereabouts of Tom Bombadil. Tom wants nothing to do with him, because Fletcher has no real need of his help, and he also has no intention of listening to anyone but himself. Tom might very well have loaned him the plot device, but because Fletcher was so insensitive in the way he treated the people and beasts around him, Tom purposely avoided him. Now I must ask you three: for what reasons did you come to Middle Earth? What have you left behind that Fletcher has caused you to forget so that you could rush here without abandon? I have become well aware of his ways; he has been bothering this world for quite some time now."

"I can't believe it," Hermione gasped. "You're right! We've come here without a moment's hesitation, purely because we believed everything he told us. I would never have just run off and ignored my classes like that! Oh Harry, I'm doomed! I had only finished the third draft of my report in numerology! It will be due this afternoon, and I won't even be there to hand it in!"

"Blimey," Ron gasped. "Why on earth did we just believe everything the bloke said? I can't even remember thinking at all that he might be lying to us. It was the most absurd notion, and if I'd thought of it, I'd have thought I was bonkers!"

"I wonder if Fletcher isn't really a squib after all," Harry wondered aloud. "Hermione, is it possible for someone to use a charm to reduce skepticism?"

"It might be," she replied, thinking for a moment. "Strange things have been done with befuddlement charms, Harry. What I don't understand is how he could have done it without using his wand... but wait! He had his wand out! He never put it back after he brought it out of his cloak!"

"Well this is just great," Ron groaned. "Now what do we do? We can't get back to our world for another ruddy day, and in the meantime, that git's waiting for us to come back with his precious plot device. What do we do now, and what can we do when we get back to our world?"

All throughout this exchange, Bilbo had tried his very best to appear attentive and concerned, but it was quite admittedly over his head, and the heat from the fire was beginning to take its toll on his level of alertness. He was slumped over in his chair, and he was lightly snoring.

"I think I may have a solution," Gandalf replied with a wry smile. "Did you know that there are varying degrees of quality in plot devices?" All three, even Hermione, shook their heads. "Well, there are. And did you also know that there is more than one plot device in this world? Tom Bombadil most certainly has the best one, but he doesn't have the only one."

Bilbo snorted in his sleep, and it caused them to jump. "Come with me," Gandalf told them, rising from his chair and motioning for them to follow him out of the room. "I'd like to show you some of Bilbo's old family heirlooms."

---------------------------------

On the third day after Fletcher had sent his new deputies off to Middle Earth, his owl returned to him bearing the very welcome news that he could pick up his plot device whenever he wished, and that unfortunately, the portkey had been damaged, and it didn't work anymore. As his only reason for visiting Middle Earth was so that he could obtain the plot device, he didn't much care that he could no longer go. On the contrary, he had become so sick and tired of all the idiots in that place that he was actually quite glad he no longer had any means of finding them again, or of their finding him. Old Bombadil, if he had survived, might have taken a fancy to the idea of pursuing the kids to their world, and subsequently tracking him down and taking the device back. He decided that Harry Potter and company had done him a great service, and he was eager to reap the benefits.

He came to Hogwarts for his second visit, and this time he convinced Argus Filch, the caretaker, to let him in to see the students. When Harry, Ron, and Hermione saw him approaching with Filch, they knew at once that Gandalf had been right all along. Fletcher was a fraud.

"Protego Totalum," Hermione whispered, casting a spell – as they had planned – to block out unwanted hexes, such as one they would expect from Fletcher. Hermione, Ron, and Harry waited patiently on their bench until Filch brought Fletcher to them, at which point they rose to their feet out of politeness.

"This man is Corundus Fletcher," Filch growled at them with a malevolent sneer. "He's come to ask you three some questions about odd happenings about the castle at night. I'd be honest if I was you three," he chuckled sinisterly, leaving Fletcher to his work.

"Forgive that jarring introduction," Fletcher apologized, opening his bag and retrieving a desk chair and a small desk from its expandable insides. "I had to make him believe I was an official from the Ministry sent to punish unruly students. I'd imagine he's a rather unsavory character to encounter on the wrong side of the rules."

"That's the understatement of the century," Ron muttered under his breath. Harry stifled a grin.

"We brought you the plot device," he explained, handing Fletcher an object wrapped in the same cloth that the portkey had been in. "Make sure that it doesn't fall into the wrong hands."

"I'll see that it doesn't," he agreed, eying the wrapped object hungrily. "Say," he thought suddenly, hefting it in his hands and pausing as though he'd been hit by a sudden bolt of inspiration. "Would you like to see how it works? Considering all that you've done for me, er... I mean, for the world and all, maybe you'd like to see what happens when it's used by a real author?"

"That would be wonderful!" Hermione cried enthusiastically. "I didn't want to say anything, but I've been aching to know, myself. You must be frightfully powerful to master the thing; It was all Harry could do to subdue it. It was really flighty when we caught it, but now that it's calmed down a bit maybe you could write something with it for us!"

"Wow! Hermione, what an idea!" Ron exclaimed. "Really, that's brilliant! Could you, Mr. Fletcher? I'll bet my dad would really regret not knowing you if you could do something like that!"

"How about it, Mr. Fletcher?" Harry asked him. "Would you mind terribly if we asked you for a demonstration?"

"All right, all right, you've convinced me," Fletcher laughed, obviously more than pleased with their enthusiasm. "If you insist, I'll be happy to! It just so happens that I have an unfinished novel right here with me. I'll show you what happens when you use the plot device to cure writer's block, as I have regrettably encountered while writing my novel." He unwrapped the device, and the moment he touched it with his trembling fingers, it stopped shrieking at once and began emitting a strange kind of melody. It was enchanting, beautiful, and so rich and complex that it almost sounded like a language. "Ah, what a heavenly sound," he sighed, setting the device on his desk and pulling a large stack of parchment from his bag, along with a quill and some ink. "Now then. Watch and learn, children." He set the parchment – which they realized was actually his half-finished manuscript – and the quill on the desk next to the plot device, and he raised his wand.

"Felicitus!" he cried. Almost instantly, he was in the chair, and he was writing like mad on his parchment. His movements were so rapid it appeared as though he had entered some sort of time loop where he could outrace the normal flow of time, and that they, along with the rest of the world, were unable to keep pace with him. Harry, Ron, and Hermione grinned at each other. They anxiously waited to see what would develop.

"Muffliato," Ron said quietly, swishing his wand at Fletcher. While Fletcher wrote, ignoring them entirely, they took the opportunity to congratulate each other.

"I can't believe he's falling for it," Ron said, trying hard to maintain a straight face. "Look at him go! I wonder what will happen to him?"

"Gandalf wouldn't say what happens when you use a plot device, or even what this one would do in comparison to Tom's," Harry chuckled. "But I'll bet it's not what Fletcher wants."

"I still can't believe that Middle Earth is a real place," Hermione sighed. "I'm glad you decided to keep that portkey, Ron. I'd love to visit that place again someday. Remember the elves he introduced us to, Harry? Weren't they beautiful?"

"I thought they were a little too perfect, if you know what I mean," Ron said dismissively. "Rather like Veela, they were."

"Oh, and we all know you're above the charms of Veela," Hermione laughed, resisting the urge to elbow him in the ribs.

"I'm just glad we didn't go searching for Tom Bombadil and wind up making idiots of ourselves," Harry laughed. "And to think! All this time, Tolkien had found that place, and then he made up fantastic stories about the people he found the most interesting there! Did you see the look on Sauron's face when Ron told him he was supposed to be the most villainous monster ever created? I thought he'd punch him right in the nose!"

"And don't forget Smeagol," Hermione chuckled. "Poor thing. He was so livid that he couldn't sit still. It was a wonderful idea of yours to play that audio reading for them, Ron. They'll never think of Tolkien as they used to, that's for sure! Just imagine what Harry would do if you went and wrote a book about him doing nasty, evil things! He'd never want to speak to you again! I know I wouldn't."

Ron cleared his throat. "There's no danger of that, Hermione. The truth is far worse than the fiction. Who'd want to scare people like that?"

They all laughed before they remembered that they were supposed to be watching Fletcher attentively. Grinning, Ron reversed his muffliato spell and they all waited patiently for Fletcher to finish. They didn't have long to wait. With a grand flourish of his quill, Fletcher laid the stack of papers in the center of the desk, and he leapt to his feet.

"It's complete!" he cried jubilantly. "My masterpiece is complete! At last, I will become the most world-renowned author of our time! And it's all thanks to you three," he cried, clapping them warmly on the shoulders. "Come on! Make yourselves comfortable while I read you my story."

They sat on the grass, and Fletcher began to read to them. It started out fairly normally. There was a man who was cast out from his human family when it was revealed that he was half-elf, and he set out on a journey to find a way to remove the elfish part of him. Along the way he met many people and did many exciting things, and as the story progressed, each event became more and more unbelievable and laughable. At first he saved a city from a marauding troll lord, which would have earned him a king's ransom had they not learned of his birth and driven him out of the city. Then he came across a dying mermaid stranded upon a beach, and he summoned the sea to rise, rather than picking her up and bringing her into the ocean. She fell in love with him, but he could not stay with her, as he had to continue his quest. The events became so haphazard and outrageous, that as they watched Fletcher read, they noticed that his face was beginning to turn red at the more ridiculous parts of the story, and he was stuttering a bit as well. Apparently he was stubborn, however, and he continued on, probably with the hope that the story's conclusion would make up for its inane progression.

It did not. The story concluded with Jack, his main character, deciding that instead of continuing his quest, he would join in a traveling circus and become the star attraction of their freak show, where at last he was admired and appreciated. By the time Fletcher had finished reading, he was so angry and flustered that he could barely speak. He gaped first at his manuscript, and then at his audience, and then back at his manuscript again, shaking in silent fury.

"Well, that was certainly very er... interesting," Harry commented, trying his not-so-very-best to repress his mirth. "I certainly didn't expect such a twist ending."

"Yeah, that was great!" Ron exclaimed, not making any effort at all to contain his laughter. "I had no idea you were such a comedic writer! This is pure comic gold, Mr. Fletcher!"

"It was intended to be a story of self-affirmation and acceptance," Fletcher said quietly, still shaking very noticeably.

"Well, he did accept himself at the end," Hermione offered, trying her very best to sound sincere. "He decided to remain as he was, and only associate with people who er... accepted him for who he was?"

"I have a question for you three," he replied, his voice icy, yet strangely composed under the circumstances. "How exactly did you obtain this plot device from Bombadil?"

They were prepared for that question. "When we found Bombadil's house, we were invited in by his wife, Goldberry," Harry explained. "Bombadil didn't even put up a fight. He said that he was tired of running from you, and that if you really wanted the plot device, you could have it. However, he wanted us to tell you that the device was not itself a master, and it was only made to serve. As such, its power is limited by the powers of its master. He said you would know what that meant. Hermione thought it might have something to do with your quality as a writer, but we don't know for sure. He was rather cryptic about it."

Tight-lipped and ashen gray, Fletcher stared numbly down at the final page of his manuscript, still in his lap. He reread the last paragraph, shook his head, and sighing, he slowly stood upright. Harry, Ron, and Hermione watched in silence as slowly, he packed his desk, chair, and everything but his manuscript back in his bag. Finally, bag in one hand and manuscript in the other, he turned back toward them. "It's just too horrible for words," he said shakily. "The whole thing… all of it except the little part that I wrote initially. Nothing, however, was as bad as the ending. Curse that Tom Bombadil! Curse you three for bringing me this wretched thing! And curse me for even thinking of entrusting such an important mission to a bunch of younglings like you!" He hurled the stack of papers on the ground in front of them and turned on his heel to storm away. As he stomped off, he called back to them, "If I had known it would end like this, I never would have told you."


End file.
